Prelude
by kangeiko
Summary: and so, in the seventh book of the "republic", Socrates told Glaucon of the prisoners in the shadowed room, and of the one whose sight was ruined by the light. Snape / Voldemort.


prelude

by vic

summary: and so, in the seventh book of the "republic", Socrates told Glaucon of the prisoners in the shadowed room, and of the one whose sight was ruined by the light.

pairing: Snape/Voldemort

archive: no.

***

I had expected the blasted remains of a ruined city. I had expected the Tower ripped open; the riverbed torn; the small, quiet streets ringing the centre smote from the very face of the earth. In truth, I had expected brutality from him, nothing less than the destruction of the entire city. I had expected a clean slate, for my Lord is nothing but thorough.

"I know you lied to me, Severus." He is painfully still at my shoulder. His armour is faded, splashed with blood and torn open in several places. The Light enlisted the dragons in its last stand, and they killed a great number of the Knights of the New Order.

The New Order. It is their name for themselves, though Voldemort does not use it. He abhors the phrase and we utter it in secret, as we uttered once his name and his dreams. Those dreams are here now, and it pains me to see how wrong I was. How petty. My nightmares were dark, the morning, darker still; upon waking I dreaded the light for it would illuminate the desecrated ruins I knew I feared to witness.

I knew, you see. I knew what he would do. I knew the jihad he would wage, for he had a dream and he cared not who stood against him. He had a dream, and it was more terrible than any nightmare my sleeping mind could conjure, for his dream would live on in the light.

I knew what he would do. I was certain.

I was wrong.

The riverbed is whole. The Thames flows still, finally cleansed of the filth that brewed to poison within it. The Tower still stands proud and tall, though parts ache and moan with each breath we take within in, for this was where he chose to make a stand. This was the magic he chose to channel. Not Hogsmeade. Not Hogwarts. *This*. And this was the centre I dreaded would be destroyed alongside him.

The small white-washed square in the middle of the public green - I still saw the blood of kings upon it! And would I not have also spilled *his* blood there, if I had but an ounce of courage left within me? - it is still there. It is still present, ringed with green and the red velvet of the tourist ropes. The plaque still stands there, though now it shines, as if cleaned. It may have been. He has truly made this his castle, and he has always been exacting. The ivy has been carefully cleaned off the walls; the ghosts banished from Traitor's Gate; the armour - that which was not used in the conflict - was polished and burnished and stored inside the Artillery Museum. He showed me. He took me by the hand and he showed me, leading from room to room, as if presenting proof that he did not want to destroy, that he was not a monster. He showed these polished shields and sharpened swords and I wondered why I kept my feet, for I knew what he would say and I knew what he would attempt to show me. I knew him, I was certain.

How could I have been so wrong? 

Serpentine Lake still hosts the swans. They still swim lazily at its borders, necks cautiously extended as they... oh, I had not expected that! Sweet Merlin, I had not! No, not the young Muggle children there, still throwing breadcrumbs, nor the adult Muggles, holding them firmly by the hand, talking amongst each other. No, I had not expected them to be here. I had, in truth, not expected them to be alive, for my Lord is nothing if not thorough.

"Severus..." His hand is still clasping mine. I fear he will continue talking of my betrayal, but he gives me a respite. "Severus, what do you see?"

"The children... I had not expected you to spare their children... I had not expected you to spare *them*." I cast about almost blindly, searching for proof that this was not so. Was the Park a zoo? Were these prisoners? No: its gates were open still. Crowds still laughed beneath the wintry sun, talking and playing as if they had not a care in the world.

As if this did not exist.

What is happening? "I did not expect you to spare them -"

"I have not." His hand is suddenly tight over mine. "I will not."

Ah. How could I have doubted it? "Then, they will die." The city will live, but the Muggles within it will perish, leaving the empty streets to the victors and to the curious pigeons. When will this spread? Will there be fires to burn the bodies, or will he reduce them to ash? How will he cope when the food runs out? How do you kill a people?

"Severus..." He turns to face me. The wind laps at his hair. It is longer than I remembered: it touches his shoulders before it is tossed to the side with a weary shake of his head. His eyes are as dark as I remember, and his mouth as ungenerous. His nose... yes; he still has a distinctive nose. It is still intact, despite the battle; despite the blood still spattered across the breastplate. He looks so noble suddenly, so powerful, that I cannot bear to look at him and glance away. My eyes cloud with rage or fear; I cannot tell and do not try. "Severus..."

"Why?" It is torn from me. I try to snatch my hand away, but he does not permit this. His is stronger than I could ever hope to be as he brings it up to his chest and presses it against a heart that does not beat. The metal of his breastplate is cold against my flesh, and his hands do not warm me. "Why must it be?" He strokes my hand awhile, as if in thought. "Why must they die?"

"Oh, Severus." He smiles, and I feel lost once more. "Severus, they will not die."

Could there be something worse? A life as slaves then, catering to each mage's every whim. And those children; those poor, helpless children... I knew what desires lay in the hearts of the basest of us. I was certain.

As he pressed cold lips to the inside of my wrist, tongue lapping at the pulse still racing there, I wondered if, once more, I was wrong. I wondered if I could make sense of this again. 

"No slaves, Severus. No servitude here. No looting. No raping. No children violated in their beds. Not one. Do you understand?" No. No, I did not. "There will be no slaughter."

"You will not spare them -"

"I will not spare them the pain of knowing. I will not leave them to live out their lives, blind and ignorant of what is around them. I will not allow our kind to hide, from birth 'til death, for fear we might be discovered. They will tolerate us," and there is such sibilance in his voice, caressing the last word, as if he could swallow it. "They will tolerate us and they will live."

"My Lord -" What is this if not servitude? I do not need to say it aloud, for he can hear me form the words. I do not need to look at him, for I know his form intimately. He is tall, and strong, and handsome in his reborn body. He is all that could be hoped for in a firstborn son. He is all that could be sought for in a Lord, Dark or Light it does not matter now, for he is all there is. How am I to resist him, when my heart falters? I am not of the New Order, yet cannot claim an allegiance to the old and hope to keep my life. He would not permit it. 

He knows my treachery, yet allows me to live. Would he allow this a second time? What is my life worth now? I have not gems or gold enough to buy back my freedom. Worse than a servant, I am bound to him by gratitude, for he spared me when he need not have. He spared me when others fell, and I am now mute. "My Lord -"

"Do not fear, Severus. I know you do not understand." He is smiling, and his hand creeps out to touch my cheek. I cannot bear to look at him. The sun is setting, angry and red. Ozone, the Muggles will say. The pollution levels rise inexorably and they will stifle us all if not checked. Ozone, the Muggles shake their heads, glad of an explanation. It is the end of this day, and they do not understand the lives lost in their name. I cannot look at him, for I know the red sun casts a show of blood across his face, sloping down each perfect cheekbone. He is so perfect here, so blindingly beautiful. He has won. And he is right. I do not understand.

I do not understand as his hand falls away, and he moves to stand beside me, still holding my hand in his. I do not understand why I fear the sound of his armour so; I do not understand why the sharp slither of scales disturbs be. I am of the House of Snakes, yet tremble in the snake pit. I do not understand my fears nor my betrayals nor, indeed, myself, as I look out once more.

The children still grasp at the dirty white swans, laughing gleefully as their parents pick them up and carry them away. The red buses still circle the city, and there are still Muggles to ride them. They do not notice the silence in the Tower, nor the battles still being waged outside the city's borders. They do not notice the owls and the ravens carrying letters of hope and of mourning. They dare not look up for they will see shapes flitting through the air, backed by the bleeding sun. 

They will be spared; this I understand. They will be spared, for I do not recall a promise of genocide nor of small slaughters, nay, of no death at all, in his writings. He did not carry out the killings; he did not lead the torment. Those atrocities carried out in his name he has already punished, though I supposed him merely cleansing his new Knights. A necessity of war, he whispered to me. He would not kill our kind if they did not oppose him. 

And if they did?

It was a war, he said, and his eyes spoke the truth. It was always a war. And though I know that to be the defence of many, it must still be true for some, must it not?

And did he not spare the children? Did he not spare me?

He is still at my side, and I must risk one last glance. His armour still shines, though it has blood smeared upon it. His face is still noble, still full of vigour. He is still Voldemort, though I know not why I feared the serpent so. I turn to face the setting of the sun. The night a new Darkness with it brings, and there will be chaos in the world. They will know Us, and they will fear Us. And, if he triumphs, they will accept Us. It will be a whole world, and it will be unblemished by ignorance and by fear. It will be a dream, and I stood against it for so long the grief almost breaks me. He grasps my hand ever more tightly and I remain silent. The sun is almost set.

It is over. 

I look out into this brave new world He will craft for us, and I wonder if I had ever understood. I wonder why I turned to the Light, waiting to be dazzled into blindness. It is Dark now - is it not? - and yet I see more than I have ever seen. 

There will be peace in London town. And He will have brought it to the city.

*

fin


End file.
